


you're better off believing (everything you heard was true)

by merbunne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, M/M, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, potential trigger situations, sort of lucid dreaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6939955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merbunne/pseuds/merbunne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is compromised. A new Captain America must rise to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. genuine and unprepared

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: 5/25  
> In light of today's release of Captain America: Steve Rogers #1, I've added some new tags to hopefully stave off some worries/discomfort. If you're just as uncomfortable and disgusted by Marvel's decision making as I am, you have nothing to fear when reading this story. I hope I've made myself clear without blatantly spoiling this story! Reminder, once again, this is a MCU STRICT story and will not reflect any of the comic decisions/plots except by coincidence. Thanks xoxo
> 
> Special thanks to Jacob for beta!! You keep me cool and smart. Basically what if Bucky got to be Captain America for a little while? Post Civil War, full of spoilers, please don't read if you haven't seen the movie! As I understand it, in the comics there is at least one version (versions?) of Bucky becoming Captain America. This fic isn't based on any of that! Strictly MCU. Enjoy!!

When Bucky froze this time, it wasn’t like any time before it.

This time, it was completely his choice, something he had consciously decided in the face of public and private logic: this was the right thing to do. Science was not ready. He was not ready, in fact. He could not trust himself and so why would the rest of the world? It was easy to say yes to this. Easy enough in a way that it really shouldn’t be so straightforward. But plenty was wrong in his life as it was.

He didn’t tell Steve. Not until he showed up and saw him on the table. The metal tabletop was cool on his human hand -- the only one that remained -- the air thick with disinfectant and pricking something familiar that he didn’t hate the way he probably should. Steve’s voice was soft. Careful, like he’d rehearsed what to say. And maybe he had. Bucky wasn’t sure why this bothered him.

Instead of a HYDRA operative, Steve was the last thing he saw upon this freezing. It was his last real image before his eyes slipped closed. His expression was hollow, following days of sleep deprivation and the weight of what Bucky could only guess was the fare they’d faced in the days beforehand. He’d let Bucky go ahead, act on his decision… and with the way it felt, maybe Bucky had hoped he wouldn’t. He would not be selfish enough to allow himself to wonder. There wasn’t any time.

Steve’s eyes were bright. And Bucky had begun to remember a certain twinkle. He saw it in every moment they’d shared before this one -- Steve directing his newly assembled team, Steve in the fight, Steve with his hand on his shoulder. In the depths of what remained of his former self glowed the warmth of knowing he’d seen this all before. Years before, in Brooklyn.

They were glassy and hardened, today. And yet, perhaps knowing this opportunity was the last, he actually smiled. Perhaps for Bucky’s sake rather than his own. That was just the kind of person Steve was. It made Bucky ache with strange urges -- more distant, scattered memory that could not reattach to tangible thought -- that felt as though they’d been forced down for years. Quiet in the shadows, suspended and wondering if they’d be forgotten.

“Be safe, Buck.”

Just as quickly as it came, it passed without real distinction, and Steve’s image became nothing but black.

 

 

 

His next breath of fresh air came about a year later.

And it felt like a fish being thrust into cold water following the fisherman’s release. He could drown in oxygen, in the force of his chest rising and falling with sudden life and warmth. This moment was just as jarring as HYDRA awakening had been, not that he was aware of a difference. What had been months (unbeknownst to him) of inactive darkness now attempted to readjust to bright lights. Things that reminded him of the worst moments in his life.

He gasped, ragged and shaken. Tempted to scream, because it felt natural to do so. If this was HYDRA, he’d lost once again, trapped and made prisoner--But there were no restraints. He was still in the pod he’d started in, still in the same lab as well. Still preserved like he’d only just entered seconds before.

A voice. “Vitals are stabilizing. Do not make sudden movement or noise as he adjusts.”

“Standby.” Another.

Realization came in waves, beginning with those who occupied the room. There was no Steve -- something dull in his stomach felt disappointment brew -- and only two faces were distinct enough to remember from before he went under. Two women. The assassin with red hair. The girl called Scarlet when the fighting began. He couldn’t remember their actual names. Beside their shared attentive yet lax expression of interest, a man with messy brown hair and glasses. Two more scientists in lab coats. This wasn’t HYDRA.

“Barnes?” The assassin spoke.

His mouth moved to respond, hoarse in the throat as only a strangled gurgle would follow.

“Easy there. We’ll get to speech, just look at me and nod if you understand.”

She seemed unsure of his condition, her voice rigid but calm in a way that suggested she was ready for him to explode at any moment. Frankly, he wasn’t sure of much, himself. But there wasn’t enough pain to keep him from nodding at her.

Her eyes followed his movement and finally she, too, would nod, satisfied. “Disengage the pod. He’s coming down.”

Around him, the barriers slid into the floor where the chamber was built upon. He was brought forward, the contraption moving to release him of it completely. His legs could not support the new introduction of solid ground; he felt himself stumble, seeing a red blur of movement stop the fall. In almost horror, he met eyes with the Scarlet girl, her hands now holding him up with her power. It was almost too much.

“Sorry. Still with us?” The assassin; he forced himself to look at her. She was a touch closer now, standing beside the Scarlet girl who righted him to sit on a nearby table. Perhaps the very same he’d sat on so long ago. He was offered a cup of water; after a moment’s pause, he took it, eyes not ever leaving her face as he did so.

His mouth shook again, wanting to say something, anything. He came across several things in his foggy state, almost surprised to find that Where’s Steve? was the most prominent thought he had despite how much it made sense to ask. He realized in a quick moment that he’d expected it to be him waking him up. He’d hoped it would be with good news, the promise of better technology. A smile in his eyes and that same stupid hopefulness that not even Bucky could forget before going under.

Instead, with the aid of a long drink (the assassin offered another cup, presumably given to her by one of the neighboring scientists), he said, “How long?”

“A year. Give or take a few days.” She shifted her weight, crossing her arms. In such a pose, she was more familiar than even a name could provide him. “I’m sure you have more questions, and you’ll get answers, I promise. But I need you to come with us and trust what we are about to tell you is of the utmost truth.”

He didn’t like this. But words did not come. He could only nod again, just as he had before.

Hesitation. She steeled herself. “Steve Rogers has been compromised.”

 

 

 

Compromise, in this case, was something else entirely.

“We suspect HYDRA. The patterns are similar and things you should be able to confirm or deny once you’re shown.” The assassin, whom he now knew (remembered?) was called Natasha, had begun explanation upon leading him from the room. Wanda, the girl who had caught him, followed somewhat behind the pair ready to aid in his walking if possible. Behind her, the scientists followed and spoke to the dark haired man with the glasses. Banner, Natasha had said briefly. He hadn’t met him before any of this.

“Following your freezing, Steve came to get us out of Raft. And that was the last we heard of him until any of this. Not even SHIELD could keep a proper eye on what he was doing in the aftermath of what happened.” She snorted. “They call that the New Civil War, now. Like we’re supposed to glorify it.”

His legs felt like gelatin. He could hardly focus on her words, clouded and overwhelmed by too much sensory at once. At the forefront was what he realized was something very deep rooted -- the moment Natasha had said his name, he was beyond willing to hear her out. Hadn’t it always been something like that? Especially now, it was perhaps impossible to deny the commitment that hung onto his name in Bucky’s mind. It ate away at him. An itch he couldn’t scratch away.

“Stark got his number in a message, but the phone was a burner. Nothing but ringing and voicemail when we try.” She occasionally threw a glance toward him, something he noticed in the corner of his gaze, because he would not look at her. His attention was divided on movement and Steve, staring ahead at the passing image of the laboratory and chambers they walked through. Something about her squint suggested she was aware of that. A door, and they were outside. A helicopter waited nearby, but she would pull the group to a stop. Bucky found himself held in place; Wanda, supporting his steps. It almost bothered him.

“Where is he now?” He found himself asking, voice tight. It was among the first words he’d said since leaving the laboratory, his language clipped.

“Unclear. Speculation tells us Europe, but they move fast.” Her gaze shifted to the helicopter before returning up to his eyes. “Listen. I know this is a lot,” She deflected, “And what’s happened to you… it’s not an easy fix. But we need your help and are willing to help in return.”

She didn’t need to say _“and Steve does, too”_ because it was too clear in her tone. Something almost comforting in a woman who truly did not exude comfort. Distantly, he remembered Steve talking highly of her even as she had become their circumstantial enemy. _“You could relate to one another,”_ he had said simply, eyes staring out into the black night as he navigated their plane.

He stared down at her, his expression impossible. There wasn’t much of a choice. He could not be fixed -- and questioned what this help of hers could even entail, but above anything HYDRA had left in his brain, Steve was always stronger. Under his skin, even if his memory of him came and went. It was as natural as breathing. Steve always had been, whether he a sickly Brooklyn punk or Captain America himself.

“Let’s go.”

It wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no. Simply compromise.

 

 

 

Captain America was on television. He was killing innocent people.

It didn’t line up. None of it made sense. But Bucky knew this is what he was seeing, sitting in a too-comfortable office chair in a too-posh meeting room watching on a too-expensive flat screen. It was New York. Stark’s place, several hours following their departure. Stark wasn’t there and the explanation of why hadn’t come yet. Bucky didn’t need it or want it -- everybody in the room knew their last reunion wasn’t anything to write home about. It was better this way.

And suddenly, he was standing, transfixed on the screen with disbelief hung in his eyes. Steve’s former associates were right to suspect something was wrong; what could possibly drive Captain America to wield his stars and stripes for anything but justice and the greater good? It was sickening -- and perhaps too familiar -- watching him lead a charge of open fire on civilians. They screamed and ran but he, unperturbed, move his mouth to direct his subordinates further in the fray.

“Russian,” He said quietly, as if it were the most natural realization in the world. Somewhere in the room, Natasha made a noise of agreement.

“I thought so, as well. It’s certainly not English he’s speaking.” She continued.

The images were completely unedited. Uncapped in a way that suggested this wasn’t from a news source or anything reputable that would censor. Most footage was shaky, but some images were clear, fixed on one location. Security cameras, maybe. Bucky didn’t think about any of that, instead distracted by the way his head swam. It was like watching the war in reverse, or in some new dimension where Captain America stood for everything wrong and sought to make destruction of his country’s name instead of fighting for it. Steve looked the same. He moved with the confidence Bucky could remember, distant like a flame, and still, Steve was not this person. In a sea of doubt, that, alone, was easiest to accept.

“HYDRA’s keeping quiet.” The wings, Sam, said somewhere beside her. “No emblems, see that? Not doing that whole ‘Hail HYDRA’ thing this time around.”

Bucky felt sick, almost fumbling to his seat but managing to sit back.

“They enjoy bragging.” She agreed. “They operate in the dark but bask in the light like lizards in a heat lamp.”

“Certainly reptiles.” Came the mutter of the bowsman, Clint, somewhere else. Bucky wasn’t looking.

“Turn it off.” His voice was sudden: soft but bore an edge. A warning. He could feel the eyes on him -- at least five pairs. He was losing himself in the images of Captain America--of Steve, doing horrible things without so much as a hesitation. Distantly, he heard the audio cut out.

Silence. Bucky shifted, hating the attention on him and wanting to leave.

Natasha had moved from leaning against the wall and sat across from. Her actions seemed less comfortable. More conscious, aware of Bucky. He hadn’t realized his appreciation for this until she looked at him from eye level and not anything above that. “... Can we call you Bucky?”

Was he even Bucky? Between the images of war and new images of Steve that clouded his mind, he was underwater. Unfocusing. But he scoffed and shook his head, attempting to look back up at her and get out of this. The long sleep had eased his brain, perhaps, though everything he’d sought to put an end to was still a greater challenge. Eye contact, for example.

“Fine.” Was all he said, because it wasn’t like he had any better name to go by. James Buchanan was long gone, as was Sergeant Barnes. At least Bucky could remind him of something else.

“Okay.” But she did not repeat it, folding her hands on the table in front of them and flickering a gaze toward her teammates. “As you can see, it’s pretty bad.” An understatement. “And if it were just Steve doing some solo work, fine. Even vigilante at this point would be better… but those are innocent people.”

Bucky nodded. It felt right to nod and say nothing.

“... And how this all applies to you, well.” She was not a woman used to hesitance -- even Bucky knew that -- which made every time she paused that much more obvious. Or perhaps Bucky had just become a little too great at reading people as a super soldier. “I said before it’s a lot. It still is. More than I think you may realize.”

“When you went under,” Banner stepped forward, a tablet tucked underneath his arm. “Steve had requested I look into what kinds of treatment I could determine for you.”

“Of course he would.” The words left Bucky before he could properly digest even thinking of them. He wouldn’t see the way Natasha smirked and Sam gave a knowing shake of his head.

Unphased, Banner went on. “I was given a readout of your brain before entering cryostasis, and compared it to the documentation recovered from before Triskelion -- the last time HYDRA observed you.”

Introducing the tablet, two charts now displayed in the room. He tapped some things and it became clear that these were the patterns of Bucky’s brain in both moments. Bucky didn’t understand them, but eyed it all of the same.

“On the left is Triskelion. On the right is a year ago.” More tapping. Zooming and shifting into what appeared to be an in depth look at various parts of his brain cavities. “What we’ve realized is that your biggest challenge is episodic memories. The medial temporal lobe areas,” He pointed to a squishy part, “are generally believed to serve a critical role in the initial processing and storage of these memories. Studies have shown that different parts of the parahippocampal region play distinct roles in processing “what,” “where,” and “when” information about specific events, which is what HYDRA tried to destroy in your memory.”

He pointed again to a different place, a stem-like area. “The hippocampus links these elements of an episodic memory. The linkages are then integrated back into the various cortical areas responsible for each type of information. Each time they…” More hesitance. Bucky was tired of recognizing how careful they all were with him. It didn't always feel like respect. “... They treated you, they wanted to prevent this connection from happening. Like blocking a dam to prevent the water from coming through--”

“Keep it _simple,_ Professor Windbag.” Based on the way Natasha looked at Clint, Bucky assumed this behavior was normal of him.

Banner, too, gave him a small look before proceeding, “What all of this means is actually _extremely_ simple.” A raise of his eyebrows. Simple for him, maybe. “Your memories are… well, it is possible they’re all still in your head. Waiting for the dam to burst with enough prodding and rest to repair.” And much to Bucky’s surprise, the scientist would allow himself an easy-going smile. “The readouts suggest that Steve was the prodding. Bucky was improving _because_ of Steve helping him remember.”

Something… softened, in his chest. Of course this was the reason, and even, perhaps, the key to all of it. Bucky’s hands turned to fists under the table, but he felt warmer, staring at a point just beyond Natasha’s shoulder.

“And despite what is happening right now, I have a feeling we can continue your recovery with this in mind.”

But it was a little too perfect. A little too kind, he thought. He wasn’t -- never was -- as easily trusting as Steve, and with a moment of quiet reflection, looked around the room. The eyes were on him, though some shifted away upon connection. The youngest in the room, Wanda, looked at where Bucky’s arm used to be. Perhaps remembering it as a weapon. He felt sick again.

“What is all of this?” He said, voice strained. “You aren’t doing this for me.”

And the entire room paused to think about it, before Sam quickly interjected the silence. “Bucky, it’s about you and Steve--”

“Just Steve. You don’t have to pretend to care about me.”

The New Civil War, as Natasha had called it, had only been for Steve’s sake. And that was fine, at first. What Steve wanted, the rest of them followed. There was an ache that perhaps felt frustrated at this. Why did it only seem like people cared about Steve when he was big and brawny, running around putting himself in danger? Frustration became bitter. Anger, deep under his skin. Steve had mattered not since becoming Captain America; he’d mattered first as the sickly kid in Brooklyn with no friend but Bucky to call his own.

The weight of remembering this felt crushing. Suffocating. He craved an escape now more than before, overwhelmed--

“... The proposition is this.” Banner broke the quiet this time, shifting something on his tablet that displayed a new screen for the room. Bucky’s brain scans disappeared, replaced by… the Captain America suit. The one he had seen Steve wear during Triskelion. Before that, the war. A model on the right, similar to his build (and missing his left arm) was joined to the suit, a new left arm appearing--

The pieces came together quickly. Quick enough even before Banner began to explain the suggested course of action. “No.” Immediate. Final.

Natasha’s voice came next, firm but careful, “Bucky, just hear him out--”

“No. _No!”_ And he had risen to his feet, slamming his single hand on the table following his shout. The silence was now deafening, even worse than before. He shook, chest rising heavy. With about a million things he could say, he chose to say nothing, turning on his heel and leaving the room with all of the weight and rage of someone he had hoped to leave in the freeze for good.

 

 

 

“Mr. Barnes?”

A soft accent, much more unfamiliar than the voices he had been kept company with in the last day, appeared from where he knew, without turning, the door separating Stark’s mansion and the outside roof was.

Several hours had passed, and because wandering outside of the property was out of the question, Bucky had opted to occupy himself somewhere farther away from the house. The elevator had too many floors; he picked the uppermost, noticing “R” and assuming, correctly, a roof. The air was clear -- as clear as a city could be -- and the sky muddled. Dark, like rain was to come. Perhaps it would be nice to feel it on his skin.

The girl, Wanda, wavered beside the stairs, attentive to what his reaction would or could be.

“Have you come to reclaim me? Put me back in the chamber?” He scoffed from where he leaned over the railing overlooking the buildings. Though there was a fair amount of space between them, he could talk easily, the only noise the dull clamor of bustle below.

“No.” Her heels pressed forward, closing space between them but hovering far enough from him. Bucky wouldn’t realize that she meant to relieve him of the pressure that would imply. “I came on my own.”

Neither said anything for a while, and he found himself surprisingly grateful. It almost encouraged him to speak and spill what had troubled him in the previous hours, but he bit his tongue, settling on something more casual. “How did you know?” His gaze flickered. “Here, I mean.”

She shrugged, just as casual, carefully taking this invitation to move to the railing several steps away. “A hunch, I suppose.”

He now glanced in her direction. She hadn’t spoken much to him a year ago, and he had a feeling she preferred quiet. Her presence, at least, did not seem as loud as Bucky remembered her powers to be. It was the same as Steve, who could stand confident and tall throwing a punch but smiled easily and spoke kindly. In the brief moments they could, Steve had told him of her the same way he’d described all of their new teammates in some way. _“She’s young, but has experienced a lot.”_ He remembered the other saying. And he secretly, selfishly, liked to even still being able to recall something so small.

“... You know,” She began, startling Bucky but only in the way that made his chest thump for a moment. “You are much like my brother Pietro.”

He blinked. A brother had never been mentioned.

“He, too, had a ferocity for others.”

“Killing?” Which was said before he could stop himself.

“Not exactly.” And to his surprise, she smiled. Like it wasn’t completely inappropriate to have said such a thing. “I read about you, Mr. Barnes. You are a good man. The blood on your hands isn’t as bad as you may think.”

He shook his head, but did not protest. It was a worthless fight. “... Your brother, then?”

“I am sure you know of what happened in Sokovia.” She laced her fingers together. Bucky noticed rings and other jewelry. Black nails. “We were abandoned in the world by tragedy, and there was a lot of bitterness. People like HYDRA take advantage of bitterness. They feed on what ails us and what we think we lack.” A pause. “There are still days that pass and I wonder why, why was it us?”

Something foggy was returning. Her name was Maximoff. The twins treated with serum that had been gossip around the base, for no one directly told Bucky anything that wasn’t a mission or relevant to his life as a weapon.

“He was always very angry, my brother.” She continued. “But he loved me and wanted to make a better life for us. We got into a lot of trouble, but cared about one another. He was all I had. My protector in all things.” Her smile was comforting and sad. She didn’t have to say how Bucky could relate to that, for he’d thought of it almost immediately. “But it was not meant for us to both get out of this alive.”

When he realized her implication, he focused his eyes on a far away building that said ‘Hilton.’ His gaze traced the curves of the letters. “... I’m sorry.”

“I am, too.” Her voice was quiet, and they said nothing for a while. For the first time since being awoken, the silence was… comfortable. Or about as close as it would get.

Finally, Bucky would gather himself to ask her something. Perhaps to wander from his own dark thoughts. “... Why these people, then? The Avengers.”

Her lips folded. “I have a history with them. Similar to yours, but I did not get a meeting room and big chairs.” Something about her tone suggested this was a joke. Her smile returning from before allowed Bucky to turn the corners of his own mouth in an uneasy smirk. “A decision needed to be made and there was no real time to consider what yes or no meant. Simply a world that needed my help and I had to decide if I was too angry to do just that.”

“You did.”

“I did, yes.” She looked at him, now. “If we believe in fate, it was destined that I do what I had to. It was… destined that my brother die and I continue on in his absence.”

Bucky’s expression was neutral, but teetered on a frown. His brow set, thoughtful.

“He cared about people, Mr. Barnes. Even under HYDRA’s eye, he did not wish to harm the innocent. ...But for those he loved, for… me, he would commit most any crime.” A careful nod. “You and Steve… it is the same. You spent your life saving his… when it was his turn, he saved yours, no matter the consequence.” He tried to read her expression, noticing she did not hesitate the way everyone else had. “It’s your turn again, you realize. You were meant to save him again.”

And she was right. She’d been right from the start, and it hit him quick and clean like a bullet in the chest.

“... They don’t trust me.” He left her name out of it, “And they shouldn’t. I… recovery…” As if considering the possibility of agreeing to go through with it, he pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache. “How can we be sure…”

Where he trailed off, she picked back up with soft encouragement. “You were getting better. Banner said it himself. And if you agree…” She did not mentioned the suit, perhaps knowing it could bother Bucky once again, “... It would be me helping you best I can in Steve’s place.”

When he stayed quiet, she continued. “We don’t have to trust you to know that you’d do the right thing for Steve. I don’t know if any of us trusts each other, now…” The smile that came did not touch her eyes. “The Civil War broke us. We are no longer Avengers. Just people who want to help our friend Steve. Even Tony realizes he is the glue that leads us and keeps us together.” So they did know of the (understandable) hate Stark felt for Bucky.

“No amount of fight can change that. ...That means you, as well.” She nodded again as before. “... It wasn't just me. We all read about you, Mr. Barnes… Steve is biased, but we know the man you were is not just in delusion. You can still be that man if that is what you want.”

She said it like it was his choice. Something he could just choose without the struggle, the looming dread that haunted him and kept him from sleep, the things he remembered that lead to the freeze being the only way out--Cowardly. It was cowardice. And it had been easy.

His mouth formed a rare confession, something he’d said only to Steve, only suggesting it as they were about to encounter their final fight together. It was like he was back there, bathed in the dark, staring into blue eyes that weren’t capable of doubting him.

“... What if I can’t? What if I can’t be that Bucky anymore?”

She did not miss a beat.

“Then maybe it’s time to start over, Captain America.”

 

 

 

Steve had been right about Wanda. And he’d be proud if he were able to hear what she had said.

It was those words that ultimately led him to reenter the Stark compound, following Wanda downstairs where she directed him to the kitchen and living room combination. Uneasiness hung in the air, but perked the moment he stepped in and made himself known. The attention was still much for him, but he took the opportunity to survey the room. Natasha, Sam, Clint and Banner remained, as did several other unfamiliar faces. No one spoke. As expected.

With a collection of nerve, he exhaled through his nose. Was it right? He couldn't be sure of moral compass -- or the humanity capable to repossess it. He didn't have that luxury, anymore. But enough people wanted this, and enough people wanted what was best for Steve. Even in anger, even in distaste... he could see this was true. Perhaps that made it right enough. It was only when something nagged in the back of his mind that he realized Steve would, without hesitation, do this for him, that he decided it was necessary. It pricked an old feeling, warm in his chest. Couldn't be ignored. Like the bastard was watching him, even though he knew that couldn't be true.

“The suit. I’ll… I’ll do it.”

“Well, well, _well._ ” From behind the corner of the room leading to perhaps another hallway emerged a voice he hadn’t expected to hear -- which showed in his face and posture.

Stark.

“Grandpa needs a new arm then, doesn’t he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both title and chapter title comes from "Brooklyn (If You See Something, Say Something)" by Taking Back Sunday, which is a very Stucky song. Will probably be referencing lots of great songs along the way because nothing makes me feel more inspired than making dumb ship playlists. See you soon! xoxo


	2. but at least there's something beating in my chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! I'm not sure if I'll try to come up with an upload schedule. Just expect things whenever I have time, which for now is actually more frequent than it'll be in the future. Yay!
> 
> All Russian speaking is more or less distinguished by 
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Cult Logic" by Miike Snow. A very "recovery Bucky" song.

Bucky hated labs.

But his willingness to move forward meant nearly nothing but labs.

The plan, he would later realize, depended entirely on that willingness. When he agreed, the plan was set into motion, a moment that had been built upon with the hypothesis that knowing Steve was in some kind of danger would undoubtedly spark a desire far stronger than the damage Bucky had suffered. Coupled with the study Banner and his associates had already begun to gather, it was nearly full proof.

There was absolutely no one else who could lead something of this magnitude -- someone with the strength _against_ Captain America who could _save_ Steve Rogers, and distantly, the drive and ambition that Steve had put into Bucky’s recovery so long ago was more than honored in this case. What wasn’t made clear -- what didn’t need to be -- was the commitment between Bucky and Steve was as natural as science itself. Like breathing. In and out, patterns in their bodies.

It existed same as a heartbeat: constant, right until death.

That very beat was loud in his ears as he entered Stark’s lab for the first time, a week or so following his agreement. Adjusting to this had been hard enough without the amount of treatment he knew had to occur. The first time he’d tried, it didn't work. He ran and hid and kept himself quiet… And it didn't work. Steve had found him like he always did -- almost like he knew, but that wasn't why he came.

It was hard to accept he needed help. These people, near strangers who wanted to help Steve… Trusting them felt like knives at his throat. Demands being made with Steve’s wellbeing as a threat, even if that was not what they intended. Hard fists and soft hearts. Until he knew for sure, to agree was his only option.

Upon entering, he almost missed Banner’s greeting -- a gentle “hello” from somewhere farther in the room, and he nodded, an automatic response. He said nothing, focused on the seize in his chest and hoping it would settle down, just settle the fuck down--

“Stark should be here shortly. For now, I’ll be prepping you in his absence."

His memory flooded back the moment he’d stepped inside -- he was beginning to feel closed in. Taken over by it, clouded in what was and wasn’t real. It did not and would not reek of blood, did not and would not hold the weight of every terrified scream and damning thought that Bucky knew occurred within each HYDRA wall. He had been that man, aware of how foul life could be with every moment his voice broke and throat fell hoarse from cries. This was not the same place -- but it looked so similar-- it was not. It was not--

Wakanda was a similar lightness. Welcoming, though it still made him nervous. This was not HYDRA. This was not HYDRA, he had to keep telling himself--

“Bucky?”

He was shaking, wavering as he stood and couldn’t seem to get enough air. Banner was in front of him, now, looking as though he wanted to steady him but not moving his hands any farther than at his chest. Touch was difficult for him, which made Banner’s decision more appreciated than he’d realize. Perhaps Banner knew a thing or two about handling monsters.

A swallow, and his lips trembled, attempting to respond but knowing it was impossible. If he tried, he would break. Banner nodded to himself. “... Breathe in with me, okay? Listen and copy my inhale.”

The scientist made an exaggerated breath through his nose -- a version of Bucky that existed so far away scoffed, finding this a little stupid -- and Bucky managed to pay attention long enough to copy best he could. His try was not nearly as consistent, but Banner encouraged him to do it again.

“Can you tell me what’s making you nervous?”

Wasn’t Sam the therapy guy? Still, Bucky managed to shut his eyes, tightly, focusing on words.

“... Bad stuff happened in labs.” He grunted after strenuous thought. “Hate labs.”

His voice was clipped, but Banner didn't seem to mind. “Okay,” which felt better than trying to say he understood. They stood in silence, hearing nothing but each other’s breathing for a solid minute or so. A door opened; Stark? Bucky was coming down, best he could, nostrils flaring.

“It makes sense.” Banner finally said. “But I can assure you, we’re only doing a physical today. Basic assessment of your vitals… Looking at what's next for a new arm.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Smug came Stark’s voice farther in the lab, taking to a pair of glasses that had been abandoned in his workspace.

“Just assuring Bucky we won't be doing anything without his explicit approval.”

“Yup. As much as I wanna get cracking on that new tin can for you, no surgery yet. It's your lucky day, Terminator.” He patted the patient’s chair beside him. “Hop up.”

Bucky openly glared, but after some reluctance did as he was told and sat back in the chair.

“Might want to consider your bedside manner, Stark,” Banner murmured as he followed and began his prep.

An eye roll. “That's why _you’re_ here, _Doctor._ I'm just the guy with the machines.”

“At any rate,” He turned to Bucky, “These are all very basic tests like most any standard physical you've had in the past.”

“Except better. And more precise.” Stark commented farther away.

“.... Sure.” Banner sighed. “We’ve already done a scan of your height and weight, and what comes next is a blood test and pressure.” He turned around to busy himself with preparing a syringe. “How do you feel about needles?”

Bucky hesitated but nodded, “They’re… Not the worst.”

“Good, good…” He approached his remaining arm, cleaning a spot with alcohol before alerting him, “In 3, 2, 1.” Bucky felt a pinch and hissed; the spot burned but it was over in moments.

“Great, Bucky.” Bruce praised.

Stark scoffed. “Oh boy, get him a lollipop. He _truly_ deserves it.”

“Asshole.” A trace of an older Bucky replied though not loud enough to be properly heard.

“Stark, please.”

“Please what? Act like I'm supposed to coddle the man responsible for my parents’ slaughter?” His voice was surprisingly level for the venom in his words. “How about _you_ please humor me the reason I would do anything more than what I've already agreed to, because frankly I'm not running a charity house for murderers with a smile on my face.”

“Stark, that's enough--”

“If it wasn't made _absolutely_ clear, Sarge,” dark eyes turned onto Bucky, “I don't give a shit what happens to you. At all. Any sort of kindness I am showing you is for Cap’s sake. Not yours.”

Bucky bristled, but set his jaw and tried to just listen. The anger was justified. Tony Stark had every right to hate him as he knew he did. But something bubbled in the pit of his stomach, an anger that didn't belong to him. Anger that had been injected. The serum itself, really. Maybe it showed on his face, because Stark’s gaze was dark. Deadly. Bucky had seen these eyes before.

A year hadn’t changed anything.

“You may have charmed this little merry tower of morons into believing something different but I'm not so easy to convince. Got it?” His gaze flickered and Bucky could only nod, looking away from him completely.

“So no, Banner,” Satisfied, he turned away and back to his work, “I will not _please_ or _thank you_ any damn thing I have to do about this man. Take it or it's over.”

A pause settled the room. Bucky wondered if this would be the moment the plug was pulled.

“.... Very well.” Banner took to his work, as well, and a clear divide was felt. Palpable in the air. Bucky could almost choke against the pressure.

“Let's keep going.”

 

 

 

Sleeping was a challenge. Always had been.

When he wasn’t the asset, he’d been frozen. And that wasn’t exactly sleep more than it was dormancy. His brain had shut off, in a way. Suspended in limbo.

So he only got to sleep during the missions that took days to complete. Travel and other recovery, not that HYDRA afforded him much rest. Despite the exhaustion that lived in his bones, sleep came with difficulty. He could never relax, could never lay down and forget himself.

He’d managed a nap here and there, so far. But actual restful sleep had yet to come. Night fell, the group parting ways for the evening while the scientists retired to laboratories and those others to their rooms. Bucky had been given a room of his own with all of the amenities one could imagine and those beyond wildest dreams. It was just the way Stark operated, he’d learned. Or so the others had said, making snide comments about how lavish everything could be.

Bucky remembered a life more humble, viewed from open eyes at odd hours of the morning. His bedroom in the dark. A figure slept at his side, small and shaking.

But as quickly as it came it left, and he pulled himself from this impersonal room and to where the living room was. He could get some water. Clear his head, though he knew that was a feat that couldn’t be accomplished in a single evening of insomnia.

What surprised him was a shock of red hair in the dim light of the room as he entered.

“Oh.” He couldn’t help it.

“Hey, stranger.” Natasha said easily, her voice a purr in the dark. <”Do you drink tea?”> Russian.

Somehow, the language put him at ease. It was in his immediate memory, easier to put together than even English as of late, though he knew the language itself existed in his head for a damning reason. <”Not often.”> He managed. He couldn’t remember ever drinking it, really.

<”You might like this. Meant to relax one before bed.”> She brought a cup to her lips, holding with both hands. A taste and she motioned with her head. <”Join me.”> It was said like an invitation but read like a request. Something he realized Natasha was quite good at.

Bucky sat down, not noticing her small smile as she abandoned her cup in favor of pouring him one. She offered it and he gave a nod of thanks, feeling the aromatic steam touch his nose. Spiced. He liked that.

<”Rogers used to drink tea with me.”> She said softly, reclining on the couch and looking out the nearby window. Stars and a half moon. <”Years ago. He didn’t sleep very well his first couple months. The adjustment, and all.”> Her eyes studied him curiously. <”Guess you old men have that in common.”>

She meant to tease, evident in the raise of her brow, but Bucky wasn’t in a position to discern that. Instead he tasted the tea. Weird, but not bad. <”HYDRA didn’t let me sleep a lot.”>

<”Sounds about right.”>

A pause. <”I don’t really know how.”>

Her look grew curious, but she did not pry, nodding instead. <”... With time you will. Just need to retrain your body.”> She took a sip as if proving her point. <”It’s not always a bad thing, staying up. It’s quiet at this hour, don’t you think?”>

He nodded, too, and they stayed quiet for a long time.

 

 

 

Days later, he’d found Steve’s room.

The room he kept with Stark did not have many personal things, but one step and Bucky had simply known it was his. There was a resounding classic feel, a time that Bucky had come to understand was their true origins. A simpler time, bathed in crisp city air and baseball games. Thin walls and music to dance to. And Stark’s decorating, he’d later admit to himself, reflected that.

His bed was immaculate. Bucky recognized the military corners -- he wondered if he could still make a bed that way, too. The nightstand held a few books, looking hardly thumbed through. Steve didn’t have time to read, he thought. A modest light, a dresser across from the bed, a mirror and a bathroom, he guessed, off to the side.

Carefully, he approached, feeling intrusive but not enough to stop or even consider stopping. Because something about this room bathed him in the past. As sure as water in the ocean, he felt right in this space. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t even specifically determine what he remembered and what he felt. It just felt _right,_ whatever it was.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hand sliding across the comforter. It was thick and sturdy, certainly nothing like what he could recall having ever slept under. The nightstand had a drawer -- his hand reached out, curious to open it up, but nothing was left inside. It’s like he had picked the place clean, like he hadn’t ever been here to start with.

Exhaling, he laid on his side. His head touched the pillow and the scent was overwhelming. Some kind of shampoo and something else he’d recognized from a year or so ago. Something of old and something of new. Steve himself. Almost selfishly, he turned his face, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. It was easy to lose himself, easy to stretch his arms and pretend there was a weight curled around him.

Buried in golden hair. It was easy to pretend Steve was here, and this was 19--something, and Bucky held him in the night.

He fell asleep for the first night in 10 days.

 

 

 

It was the first of many therapy sessions. Nobody ever called them that, but Bucky knew that’s the term they danced around 

Rehabilitation was a word he’d heard Sam say. A means to recover. It tasted weird in his mouth, the idea that he was sick. He’d never been the one who was sick -- add it to the list of things that grew hard to accept as this process went on. He was beginning to think there would be no assured or easy victories. If any at all.

He was not optimistic. And was the older version of himself? He didn’t know that man. He didn’t know what to make of him or if he even still existed somewhere deeper. Banner had said it was more likely than not and entirely possible to find. He could never quite be the same man. But he could still be a good one… right?

He could never erase what had happened and what his hands had done. Bloody and metallic. But he could start over and leave that identity behind.

Right?

“Okay, Buck.” Sam’s voice. He wouldn’t admit to favoring the nickname -- he was certain Sam still held bitterness since their previous year’s interactions. Couldn’t blame him. “You know it’s gonna be a long road, but if you hang tough it’ll be over before you know it. Sound good?”

He nodded, looking away from Sam’s gaze and instead at a point on the wall ahead of him. They were in something more akin to a doctor’s office he may have been to as a child. He wasn’t sure if that was true, just that Natasha had said it offhandedly moments before. Despite not knowing, it certainly felt more comfortable than the lab had been days before. But perhaps didn’t mean a lot.

“Good. Let’s get to it.” He reached for a tablet -- similar to the one Banner had last used in a setting like this -- and tapped at the screen knowingly. “According to the footage we’ve obtained from last year’s… events,” He hand waved, “As we understand it, Karpov was able to trigger your reflexes by saying a series of words in Russian--”

“Don’t!” He said tightly. Perhaps it was obvious, but the demand burst out of him before the logic could catch up, eyes shut, “Please don’t--”

Bucky wouldn’t see the room’s reaction -- how Natasha had gotten up from her place on the wall, Wanda had put her hands up, Sam had all but grabbed him in place. “Easy, easy.” Sam spoke and the three -- in addition to Bucky -- slowly relaxed. It was a little therapy for everybody, especially with a voice like Sam’s.

“You’ll never have to worry about that.” He continued. “Please believe that.”

A pause and Bucky nodded, exhaling. Stupid. Of course they wouldn’t try, not with everything they’ve been trying to do in the first place. “Sorry.”

“Just don’t let it happen again.” Natasha. Surprised by her words, he looked over to see her with the ghost of a smile on her lips. <“Made you look.”> She said quietly in Russian. It felt familiar in a way he knew it wasn’t, but he could only smirk in response.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Hey now, Tasha. None of that secret language stuff. Not all of us are as cultured.”

“Do you feel left out?” Wanda smiled. <“We hurt his feelings, Natasha.”>

<“How sad. Boohoo.”>

“Moving right along,” He eyed the girls before returning his attention to Bucky, who was actually all smiles about the exchange. Even if it wasn’t consciously realized, he liked the girls -- and that he certainly had in common with his former self. Female company was pleasant, and these girls were soft yet deadly in all of the right ways. _Just how I like a dame,_ an older Bucky may have said. And maybe he felt the words in his smile, a flicker of the past that only came around a few times a day without involved prodding.

Sam softened, and Bucky wouldn’t quite notice he was glad about it despite the feigned annoyance. “We will be attempting to get rid of these triggers. Banner’s come up with some promising ideas. Remember the dam thing? Blocking your --” He glanced at the tablet, “--Episodic memory? We’re going to hit at the core of what these words are associated with in your brain and attempt to pull out the bad and the good all at once. The good, if it’s powerful enough, will replace the bad.”

His eyes met the other’s. “Would you be willing to give this a shot, Buck?” A pause. “If you’re not ready, you’re allowed to say no.”

But he wasn’t, really. It all sounded too good to be true and he wanted to say yes, even, but the layers of hesitance wavered on his tongue. His eyes found his lap, staring down at the folds of his pants, his shirt hem, the long sleeves. Most of these decisions amounted to not really having a choice. Sam said he did, but that wasn’t the moral truth… if he could even claim anything moral anymore. He knew the alternate -- saying no -- was giving up on Steve, even if no one said it plainly. That in itself was unacceptable. Finally, he nodded, saying nothing else.

“Alright.” Sam echoed his nod, turning to tap on the tablet again. “Might seem crazy, but Banner’s got a good feeling and he’s the most rational guy we’ve got.” When he was satisfied with what displayed on his screen, he set the device aside, looking to the youngest in the room.

“Wanda, as you know, has a lot of supernatural abilities not even something like your super serum can explain. HYDRA experimented on her, and the results were like nothing they’d ever seen.”

Natasha hummed. “Firsthand, I can tell you her abilities are beyond human comprehension.” The girls exchanged a look and the briefest flash of guilt came across Wanda’s features. Bucky didn’t understand but could assume many things that he wouldn’t know were actually close to correct. Over a cup of tea perhaps he'd ask her one day.

Sam continued. “She can experience human conscious similar to dreams… hallucination based on what we carry in our brains.” A tap to the temple. “She can get into what’s up here and pull forth memory. We’re convinced she can do positive things for you.”

Wanda, shyly, would nod. “... Mr. Barnes,” She looked at her hands, folding them together. “... I want to make right the things I have wronged. In many ways this is impossible, but I feel that helping you is a part of that.”

He blinked at her, brow heavy. It hadn’t been her -- in fact she, too, had been a victim to HYDRA. What could she possibly be implying? There was something else, perhaps, she wanted to say, and he almost wanted to ask. Maybe a different version of himself would’ve. Instead, presently, he said, “... Bucky.” His voice was soft. “Mr. Barnes was my dad.”

Everyone smiled at this, and Bucky felt himself warm with something of old.

“Okay... Bucky.” She tried on her tongue. “... I am going to try and make you remember things that will be happy for you. I cannot navigate what you will see, but I will try to force away the negative energy as I feel it.”

“We have to sedate you for this to be safe. In case it’s….” He didn’t need to say it, trailing off. “Is that okay, Buck?”

Discomfort. But he nodded, stubbornly. “Yes.”

“Lay back and we’ll get you ready.” Sam moved to mess with the tablet again. “When you’re under, Wanda will recite the last word in the trigger to see what your memory comes up with. Because it’s out of order, you won’t be as compelled to do something dangerous, but it should still create a response according to Banner’s findings. Like she said, she’ll be forcing the negative energy and pulling from positive links she can feel in your subconscious.” He paused, studying the tablet and then looking back at Bucky. “We’re asking a lot… but you need to trust her as completely as possible.”

It was scary. But necessary. He closed his eyes, laying on the long patient chair. “I trust you.” He said almost without thinking. And it was true, as true of trust as he could give someone in his situation. Wanda had made an impression on him even in their brief conversation that very first day. He wouldn’t see the young witch smile with teeth at the confession.

“Administering the sedative now.” Natasha said. Her voice was close; she must have moved, he realized distractedly.

“Deep breaths… in and out…” Sam.

“Count backwards from 50…”

And he didn’t hear anything else, the room black save for a warm red glow.

 

 

 

Winter. Footsteps in the snow.

He remembered Brooklyn, the cold New York winters. It forced him and Steve under the covers in their apartment, sharing a bed and sharing warmth. Steve was always so cold. Too small to keep any of his own body heat, icy in his appendages and with a cough that never seemed to vanish. His sicknesses were nearly always aggravated, but winter was when it was its worse. Pneumonia, strep throat, even the common cold -- Steve would have a handful of each from November to March. He’d been so frail, pale as what fell from the sky outside and shielded by Bucky and thin blankets.

This time, it was Steve who stood healthy and proud beside him. It was strange in the way that everything had been strange -- Steve being here in the first place. Steve being taller than him, larger than him. Facing the wind and the snow with a strength Bucky had always known lay dormant in his heart, waiting for the chance to see the light. He’d always known it to be there.

He found himself staring. But Steve never caught him, too absorbed otherwise. The fact that Bucky himself knew it was a pattern made him embarrassed, enough to scoff quietly to himself. He wasn’t some pining dame looking at Captain America with superficial lust. There was just something he couldn’t explain. He wouldn’t try. Especially not now.

His eyes moved to the zipline instead. The drop was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Something prickled in Bucky’s memory and a dull laugh shook his chest. “... Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?”

Steve glanced over. “Yeah, and I threw up?”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “This isn’t payback, is it?”

Christ, what a smile. “Now why would I do that?”

The cold created a blur. He was now on the train. Grinding wheels. Metal on metal, hissing and movement. There was gunfire and chill and he had taken a hold of the shield. It was heavy and felt like Steve, a solid force. But it wasn’t enough. He was pushed out, hands scrambling upon a single grip on the outside. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Was that Steve’s voice? He couldn’t hear over the wind whipping his face. Frigid chill. Ice in his veins. The bar was wavering. It wasn’t supposed to be

He was trying. They were both trying. The bar ripped off of the side. It wasn’t

“Bucky!”

He did not hear himself scream as he fell from the _freight car._

 

_ <Freight car.> _

_ <Freight car.> _

_ <Freight car.> _

_ <Freig> _

_ <F re i> _

_ <F r> _

 

He was not dead, surrounded by winter. The pain did not come at all; he did not hit the ground. A rush of warmth. His eyes closed and he was somewhere else entirely.

Brooklyn, covered in ice. His breath was cool puffs in front of his face; Steve, bundled head to toe like the punk he was, enjoying the way his own breath did the same. He had no business being outside in this weather. Bucky had told him so.

“You stupid dip,” He’d said, “Gonna make that cold ten times worse.”

Bucky was right but Steve wasn’t having it, apparently. “Can it.” The smaller shoved him without heat, “I wanted to see the flakes.”

And who could really argue with that? Certainly not Bucky. When Steve was set on something, he was poised to do it, obstacles be damned.

It really was a beautiful sight. Bucky would like winter a lot more if not for the cold itself. A lot of the neighbor kids had come outside, too dangerous to make it to school but wanting to spend the day making angels and throwing snowballs around. The streets would be covered in snowmen by the time night came, already several inches of cold blanketing every still object Bucky could see. Lumpy bodies, wobbly sticks for arms, lopsided rocky smiles.

The flakes were big. The kind you saw at the pictures, where the women and men were bundled for Christmas as they walked arm and arm. Holidays had passed, but New York would have these big chunky flakes for another couple months. Distantly, he heard bell chimes. A whistle, loud and commanding of attention. The noon freight train was coming, metal on metal. Hissing movement. Grinding wheels.

Steve watched the snow. Bucky watched Steve.

“You got somethin’ to say, jerk?”

“Just how sorry you look in that scarf, punk.”

 

 

 

“Bucky? 

His eyes fluttered, the world reopening in vague red light until he saw Wanda looking down at him expectantly, her hands still raised as they had before he’d gone under. Sam and Natasha were nearby, not quite as close as Wanda who stood just behind where his head lay.

“... ...His scarf.” He turned his head, feeling at his neck with his one hand. “So thin. Damn thing couldn’t even keep gooseflesh off.”

He wouldn’t see Sam and Natasha exchange a look, or the way Wanda’s eyes opened up wider than before.

“Is that right?” Sam tried.

“Old scrappy shit, it was.” Bucky continued. “He was already sick. First bit of the flu. Shouldn’t have been out there… stupid punk...” Unaware of himself, he smiled. “He got really pink outside. Like he wasn’t sick… pink nose…”

“... Who?”

He closed his eyes, his smile soft.

“Stevie.”

He wouldn’t see the way they all grinned.

 

 

 

That night, he’d found a shirt that belonged to Steve.

Selfishly, he carried it back to his room and fell asleep with his nose buried in its shoulder, dreaming about a scarf much too thin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to hit me up on tumblr or twitter (both bymameido) if you ever want to chat about what I'm writing. Happy to take thoughts and suggestions and anything else! I'm trying to leave a lot of what Wanda's abilities do and Bucky's visions/memories/etc up to the reader. I want to explain less -- no fun that way -- and for all of you to experience it however you see it. I'm so excited to keep writing. Thanks for all of the positive feedback! xoxo


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